


A poem for your name

by scuttlesworth



Category: Username
Genre: Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scuttlesworth/pseuds/scuttlesworth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know this is weird. But for a long time I've loved the lists of kudos and bookmark names at the bottom of the works here on ao3: such abstract concepts and ancient references, completely out of context.  Today, I spotted your name in folks who liked a work I was reading. And I wanted to write out the image it called to mind. I do hope you don't mind; if it freaks you out I'll delete it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadgloves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadgloves/gifts), [wallysmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallysmom/gifts).



She's wearing them. I never imagined.  
Her pale fingers slipping into them  
Her nails unvarnished, trimmed neat  
Moon cuticles sweet  
No snags. She has taken care.  
Soft, soft skin  
The wrinkles of her knuckles  
Like the knots on a tree  
Where a branch used to be  
We call them eyes, as children,  
Imagine the trees looking at us  
Now the eyes of her fingers hide  
Inside. 

The gloves are soft.  
That's their primary characteristic  
(Oh no it's not, you know it's)  
Soft, soft, soft. Soft off white  
Like lamb's wool (no)  
Like parchment paper (no no no)  
Soft and pale like something innocent,  
Similar but not the same.  
Oh no.  
I think of all the words you could use to describe them  
There, on her hands, smoothly  
hiding all the details  
Of nail and knuckle, palm and vein.  
Ecru, pale beige, cream.  
Sand, off-white, old lace, ivory.  
Powder, eggshell, vanilla.  
Bone. 

The people wore perfumed gloves in Rome,  
The city of bare flesh and sensual indulgence.  
They (there are always those who can be "they", in stories;  
Those who fight against the tide  
Battling desperately for some odd form of decency  
Struggling against the overwhelming impulse of humankind  
Towards the pleasures of every sense-)  
\- They made laws in London  
That taxed those who would wear gloves so long  
That they would cover wrist, forearm, elbow  
Sliding up the arm leaving so much concealed;  
So much to reveal.  
Laws taxed gloves made from samite,  
The pale heavy twill-woven silk of the east.  
They threw down the gauntlet  
And were defeated.  
Queens wore gloves  
Embroidered, bejeweled  
Drew them off and tugged them on  
Calling attention to fine pale hands  
In lieu of exposing other fine pale things. 

Once, there was a man  
(I'm sure this is true)  
Who pulled on a pair of gloves  
(Leather, someone said, black or brown)  
And smiled at his wife  
And got into the car  
To drive them off into the chill autumn evening.  
Jazz played on the car radio.  
She smiled at him, her lipstick bright and happy  
Her hair freshly done up  
Wearing one of her nicer dresses.   
Rain was coming down on the road  
Glittering like falling diamonds in the headlights.  
There was an accident  
He said a fox ran out in front of him  
Or a bit of branch fell on his windscreen  
Or something happened to his steering.  
His wife was a pale form loaded on a stretcher  
Strangled by the seatbelt,  
The police said in wise tones.  
The husband was a seen  
Later that week  
Kissing the pale-gloved fingers of a lovely younger woman  
At a candlelit dinner  
In a fine steakhouse. 

She's wearing them.  
I never dreamed.  
She smiles and lifts her hand up to admire  
The close fit  
So perfect  
Like a second skin  
Over her fingers.  
The perfectly smooth leather  
So fine grained,  
So flawless.  
The leather is so thin  
You'd almost think  
She would still leave fingerprints  
When she touches things.  
She meets my gaze  
And her eyes sparkle  
As she touches my cheek  
With her cold, cold hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Wally is a Salticidae  
A Marpissa Muscosa, to be precise  
And his mother is a twelve year old girl named Ramona.   
He lives in a clear plastic hamster tank in her room  
On a little dresser beside her bed  
And hides under the fresh hydrangea leaves  
She stole from the neighbor's shrub just for him.   
She feeds him fruit flies and lectures him about being shy  
And puts him in a cleaned-up tin in her pocket  
While they go on adventures on her bike.  
She flies fast down the hill  
Long braid streaming behind her  
Scowling in concentration at the bumps   
and potholes   
and patches of sandy dirt  
And the curb.   
Look ma, no helmet!   
She tells Wally stories about being an astronaut  
Visiting aliens, zooming around in a spaceship  
And about being a race car driver  
And about skydiving.   
And at night Wally watches the darkness  
And swears he'll bite any nightmares that try to touch her. 

Wally is a dopey-looking beagle puppy  
And his mother is a very cranky cat.   
She just had kittens, a whole batch of them  
And here comes this ugly thing.   
Much too big to be a kitten.   
It's falling all over itself,   
Making problems far too near her precious little killers  
All struggling to suck from her aching, sort belly.  
She glares at it.   
It's all paws and eyes and ears.   
Obviously a baby itself. She should give it a solid whack,   
Right on the nose. Teach it manners.   
When it falls into her range she   
Hisses angrily  
She was almost having a nap! Except for all the   
Kittens crawling all over her.  
To get control she gives this new  
Ugly  
Kitten   
A fierce lick,   
And cleans all the dust off its nose and  
Shoves it down with a paw.  
It whines and wriggles  
But she is Mother  
And she will be having none of that nonsense. 

Wally is small  
And delicate  
And made entirely of wires and bits of plastic   
Printed from a template   
Gotten off the internet.   
He's supposed to repair the ducts, but   
The supply of plastic they got wasn't up to spec  
And he keeps breaking when he tries to   
Leverage his delicate arms and legs against the metal  
Of the duct shaft.   
So they keep having to print new parts,  
Re-attach them,   
Recycle the old broken stuff.   
Over and over.   
Mother is proud of him, just like she's proud of all her children  
All the little bots she builds  
Carefully  
One line of molten material at a time  
Her nozzles whizzing away on their arms  
Turning dreams into reality. But this one,  
He's the one she loves best  
Her constantly breaking little problem child  
Her baby boy.   
She scavenges bits and parts for him  
Trying to make him stronger. A scrap of some   
Metal wire from another project,   
A bit of extra-strength glue from another.   
Every time his code sends him back for repair  
Mother applies the patches  
Hot fixes  
And sends him back out into the world with a  
Resigned little beep.


End file.
